How could he talk about Meggie with his future wife? How could he talk about this hole in his heart? This hole that wondered if he had a child in the world somewhere. A hole that wondered if Meggie yet lived.
A hole put there by his own father.
Except this was Emily.
He nodded. The vision of her—not Meggie—covered in blood, intruded into his memory. He wiped his eyes in an attempt to rub away the images.
“How did you meet her?” She sounded genuinely interested. Since the question was not about the dream, he didn’t mind answering.
“Her father was one of the tenants at Candlewood Park. My father sent me around to discuss a raise in their rents. God, she was beautiful. And she didn’t play coy like the other ladies of my acquaintance.” He’d fallen fast and hard. He’d been a young fool.
What was it about Meggie that had felt so magical? The fact that she ran barefoot through the woods, her hair flowing freely behind her. The unchecked words she let fly randomly. She’d been so completely uninhibited with him. He’d never met anybody like her.
She’d awakened him to a world outside of the aristocracy. She’d introduced him to freedoms he’d never have for himself.
Or was it that he’d been only seventeen and she’d allowed him an abundance of liberties?
Emily listened to the awe in Marcus’ voice. He must have loved her very much indeed. Perhaps he still did.
No wonder he’d cried out in agony. He’d lost the love of his life, along with their child, and he believed his father was to blame. Emily had thought that if he talked about the woman, he wouldn’t dwell on the darkness of his dream.
She’d not expected his words to land like daggers.
“You were young,” she reminded him. Emily remembered her own foolishness at that age. At seventeen, she’d believed she would someday earn her mother’s approval. She’d believed she’d find herself a kind husband. She’d assumed the Seasons in London would advance her life into marriage and motherhood.
She’d quickly learned herself to be incapable of attracting any suitable offers, and her mother had given up and turned her attention elsewhere. If Emily hadn’t befriended Rhoda, she wouldn’t have had anyone to attend all those endless balls with. She’d never have met Sophia or Cecily.
Where would she be today if not for her friends? In Wales already?
“She haunts me, Emily.” Marcus’ words brought her back to the present. Again, with the pinching near her heart. This made no sense. They’d shared some embraces. Embraces that weren’t supposed to mean anything.
She’d not allow herself to fall in love with him. Shecould not. That would be… idiotic of her. “Why, Marcus?” She licked her lips. She wasn’t the sort of lady who fell in love. Science, math, and the arts must be the focus of her passion. She’d never have to worry about them loving her back.
“Because I never had the chance to come to know myself. I never had the chance to act honorably. And a part of me wonders… a part of me knows… that I might not have done the right thing. Given the choice, I might have—”
“Even so,” Emily interrupted. “You’d have given her security. You’d have paid for your child’s education.” And then because she was coming to know him, to know his heart, she added, “You never wished her dead.”
He swallowed hard. “I might as well have.”
“Because your father took care of matters?” She hated that he blamed himself. Meggie had been an older woman, older by perhaps more than he knew. Emily had a feeling about this. But what if she was wrong? She ought to have waited until Prescott unearthed all of the facts before sending Marcus off to marry anybody.
She ought to tell him about Mr. Thistlebum.
“Because I did not,” he answered her harshly and then drew his hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter that I was seventeen. I was man enough to…” His eyes drifted away from her. “I’ll not speak of it in front of you. Despite your blasted curiosity, I’ll not.”
Emily nodded in understanding. Her blasted curiosity indeed! She’d already pushed him to show her some of what she craved. Today, when he’d done those things to her. She swallowed hard at the memory of his mouth on her. Of the spectacular explosion of feeling she’d experienced. Burning ecstasy. Cascading inhibitions.
“I never knew such a sensation existed,” she said without thought. “Today, in the carriage. I thought that could only happen with—”
“Some women,” Marcus interrupted before she could finish, “a very small percentage of women—are able to achieve their pleasure as you did today.”
“Huh.”
So, what did that make her?
“What?” His eyes studied her.
“Pleasure is such a tame word for it,” she commented. “I thought I might die. It was like waves were crashing inside my brain. So many feelings. I understand why it has been termedle petite mort.”
